


From The Start

by treasuredleisure



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: AU where England do well, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Football | Soccer, M/M, World Cup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1937676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treasuredleisure/pseuds/treasuredleisure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were once childhood friends who bonded over their love of the same sport. </p><p>Years later they reunite, but as competitors. </p><p>And Erik's still harbouring feelings for his old friend that he's certain he can no longer hide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From The Start

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ikeracity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/gifts).



> Thank you to [patargus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kageillusionz/pseuds/kageillusionz) for the beta!

The German National Team’s base is an elaborate, isolated facility, but they still have their team meetings in secretive locations. Today Erik has to misdirect about four different groups of journalists and photographers before he can enter the building in which he’s expected.

Being one of the youngest and fittest players, he has the energy to carry him through a whole match, but he likes to think he’s consistently earned a place in the starting lineup due to his impact in each game. Having played the entirety of normal time in their previous three matches, he’s yet to see his team lose even once. He intends to keep it that way, so long as the eagle is on his chest, and his team is ready by his side.

“Erik!” he hears from the end of the corridor, a head leant out of the farthest conference room. Erik quickly jogs his way in, and the instant he hears the informal German banter filling the room, he realises the discussion for Friday’s game strategies has most definitely began.

When Germany will be facing England for a place in the World Cup semi-finals.

And Erik will face his first best friend.

:::

They’d moved to America in March. A mother and son with one suitcase, about one hundred dollars, and a worn, half-deflated football.

Erik _hated_ the wide roads and loud neighbours and the overly cheerful middle-aged women who fawned over his accent. If he could survive being bullied by six-foot tall farmer’s sons, then the skinny jocks in his class would be a doddle, he’d tell himself, rooting through the garbage to find his football again.

They called it _soccer_ here. _Football_ being something entirely different.

So the next time he bumped into the sport’s teacher, Coach Howlett, he made sure to ask him about places to play soccer, instead.

“Sure, kid,” Howlett had said, before rattling off the whereabouts of the local soccer club he ran and managed two times a week. Then he’d spared a look at Erik’s sneakers and advised him to get a new, more durable pair.

He spent the next few weeks offering to wash cars for change until he had gathered enough for second-hand football boots that might just last him a decent amount of time.

Erik’s mother wasn’t eager about it at first. It wouldn’t satisfy her to see Erik running off to play football when he could be spending that time with his books. Over dinners and breakfasts they come to a compromise: even one failed grade in his studies would allow her to take him out of the club.

There were fourteen others. Some from his school, a couple from a nearby private academy, and one boy in particular who was home-schooled.

That was Charles Xavier.

Charles Xavier was the one who actually clapped when Erik dribbled a ball around a few cones for the coach, just so they knew what stage Erik was at.

It took Erik a whole month to figure out how he felt about Charles Xavier. His desperation to be liked was slightly annoying, his tendency to know the answer to absolutely everything was endearing, and his skills on the field were painstaking to watch. Xavier tackled with hugs, and couldn’t kick a ball into the net even if the survival of humanity depended on it.

They were paired up as marking opponents on Erik’s third day. Xavier stood facing him, while Erik eyed the ball between them. A small hand jutted out.

“I’m Charles,” Xavier had said, wind blowing his hair into his eyes and making him squint.

Erik simply took the ball and set off.

He was halfway down the course, tearing past obstacles and never losing possession of the ball under his heel, when Xavier caught up to him—huffing and panting and insisting, “I wasn’t ready!”

Erik didn’t stop until he’d completed the track, well-timed with the shriek of Howlett’s whistle. Xavier, however, was unable to halt as sharply and quickly as he wanted to, and instead collided with Erik’s back.

He was, nonetheless, slowly getting better. He’d turn up to practice as early as Erik would, shirt tucked into his shorts and pristine socks pulled up to knees. He’d warm up and Erik would watch him, watch the way he ran laps across the track nearby and watch how he took shots at the goal.

The first thing Erik ever said to him was, “You kick better with your left leg.”

And apparently, that was a cue for Charles Xavier to insinuate himself into Erik’s personal space for the next few days. If Erik had known—

He would’ve said so sooner.

It meant that Charles, somehow, became his partner for every activity, pleaded silently to be chosen in his team, brought him snacks they could share during break, and fussed over every small graze or bruise that covered his skin like it was detrimental to continue without it being smothered by a band-aid.

In turn, Erik started to feel _responsible_ for the tiny, ridiculous, blue-eyed creature who practically fed off his undivided attention as though chattering away into Erik’s ears was the most glorious part of his day.

When Coach Howlett didn’t announce Charles’s name anywhere after Erik’s for the eleven that would play for their next competitive match, Erik ended up being disappointed for the both of them. Charles only beamed and congratulated him with a pat on the shoulder, gushing about how excited he was to see Erik play in his first actual game.

Erik didn’t—he wasn’t _supposed_ to make friends, and he’d never meant to; he’d happily go back to being the lone foreign child with the weird accent who was constantly glued to his football. After all, their move to America was temporary. Erik’s mother was earning just enough for them to get by on necessities, and there was no chance they were ever going to be able to put aside enough for Erik to attend college here. Erik always knew they were going to go back, where the tuition fees would be more affordable, and when his mother’s work contract ended.

But he was stuck. Stuck having _feelings_ for the boy who cheered him on from the bleachers for the entirety of the match, and anchored him down to that unfamiliar place.

:::

Erik has a press conference in ten minutes, a two hour Rugby training session followed by physiotherapy, and then a media interview with Mercedes Benz. His schedule is full but his stomach is far from it, and led by its ravenous demands, he heads for the cafeteria. Only a few of the staff stop him for pictures and autographs—and he’s happy to oblige them, smiling through a mouthful of sandwiches.

He’s already dreading the upcoming match, and the thought of being barraged with questions about it before a herd of reporters and a wall of cameras is that much more unnerving. He can only hope, that on the grounds of being the twenty-three year old with less stature than the captain of the German team sitting two seats away, his presence will be ignored.

But after the general inquiry for an update of his injury and his tidy answer—the next question brings him up short.

“Are you looking forward to playing opposite your old friend, Charles Xavier?”

:::

They never ever went to Charles’s house.

To a great extent, Erik had considered his own home to be embarrassingly small and plain, but the way Charles regularly protested at the suggestion of going to his own house made Erik doubtful if Charles’s insecurities about his home outweighed Erik’s.

 _Everybody_ knew Charles was rich—rich enough to afford a humongous house. Erik knew that Charles’s issues were to do with the _people_ in that humongous house.

It was something Erik had silently learned to accept: his friend would rather adjust to the narrow, cramped corners in Erik’s room than take them both to where he lived. It was also why Erik wordlessly placed his hand on Charles’s back and guided him straight to his mother when his nose started bleeding during practice.

Erik’s mother adored Charles just as much as Erik pretended not to, and pulled on Charles’s cheeks just as often as Erik wished to, and gave him kisses and care in every way that Erik wanted to. He could live like this.

Even if his affection went unspoken, it definitely wasn’t unnoticed. Erik loved to play and Charles knew that, and his support never waned, whether it was from the pitch or from the bench. But both of them were forward players, and Charles was hardly picked over Erik, not unless Erik took matters into his own hands.

Charles had been eager to play all day.

Erik was faced with a simple, split-second decision when he saw a defender lunge towards him with his leg extended. He flicked the ball off behind him and dived.

He remained face down on the grass for a while, mostly unharmed. His chin and elbows were effectively scabbed, and he _did_ have Charles to make a greater fuss out of it than was necessary.

As expected, Charles was kneeling next to him the next instant, and all he needed to do was pick his head off the grass and give Howlett the signal that he wouldn’t be able to continue. The man rolled his eyes as Charles escorted Erik off the pitch and waited for Erik to complete his dramatic limp to the benches before nodding at Charles.

“You’re up,” he said, and that was all it took to brighten Charles’s concerned expression into joy.

Howlett stopped next to him to watch Charles leap onto the pitch and integrate himself with the group huddle that was going on between their teammates.

“You must really like him, Lehnsherr,” Howlett chuckled, before jogging forward and restarting the game.

That, was how Erik’s sport’s teacher broke him the news.

He considered it—for a moment it was all he could think about, how it was so _obvious_ —but the next second he was up from his seat and dashing onto the turf to congratulate Charles for the goal he scored.

:::

The question shouldn’t surprise him.

Over the years, Erik has come to learn about his old friend’s transfer deals and infamous hookups through newspaper articles—hell, he has ‘Charles Xavier’ on Google alert, for research purposes, of course—and he knows exactly how much attention he garners under the media spotlight. He knows just how desirable Charles has become both on and off the pitch, his social status rising under the shadow of wealthy, entrepreneurial parents and if that wasn’t enough, the bachelors degree in Biochemistry to his name certainly hasn’t quelled the hype surrounding him.

Now that they’ve unearthed a past connection between the English midfielder and the German striker, the press have found something to sink their teeth into. At least, the plenty here tonight who could care less about the sport they play.

Erik clears his throat and slowly leans forward in his seat.

“I haven’t been in contact with Charles for six years, but I’ve been… well aware of his achievements and I am extremely proud of how far he’s come.”

Wait—that has nothing to do with the question. He returns blank stares, then shuffles in his seat, and tries again.

“Er, while, of course, we haven’t yet confronted each other on club-level, I am mindful of what a threat he can be on the pitch, and so we’ve all studied him closely. The German team certainly looks forward to the challenge ahead.”

:::

Charles was becoming more and more beautiful day by day.

And it needed to stop.

“Help me stretch,” he called from the floor, one socked foot jabbing at Erik’s desk chair.

If Erik wasn’t so certain that Charles was as serious about his education as his mother was, then he might’ve thought Charles was deliberately trying to distract him. Incidentally, Erik was on a week long ban from all football related activities until his homework was fully completed—and no, he wasn’t allowed to ask his friend for even a whisper of help, as it always seemed to result in his work being magically completed within two minutes.

Erik dropped his pen and swivelled in his chair until he was facing Charles, who was grinning at him from the floor, spread on his back with his legs bent. Erik slid off his seat to join Charles on the ground, where there was barely enough space for him to position himself between Charles’s knees.

He lifted Charles’s right leg and clinically pushed it towards his body, one hand on the back of Charles’s ankle, and the other gripping his thigh. Erik pressed and held for thirty seconds, watching how the intense strain on Charles’s muscles made him bite hard at his bottom lip. Erik released his right and reached for the left, extending it towards the ceiling and applying equal pressure. Charles had always been remarkably flexible, and now he could feel it under his hands, as he dropped both of his legs and folded him in half, leaning forward so they were face to face. They could only maintain eye contact for so long before Charles was blushing and Erik had to flit his gaze away.

Charles was becoming more and more beautiful to him and it needed to _stop happening_ because Erik wasn’t even sure what he liked but he was starting to believe Charles defined it.

:::

Erik’s heart is hammering wildly in his chest, and he’s not even sure if it’s the adrenaline or something else entirely.

Somehow, he’s here again. He’s good enough, he’s fit enough, and he’s _capable_ , so he’s here. And this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Somehow, Charles is also here. Under this stadium. Aligned parallel to his opponents. He’s equally as deserving, he’s worked just as hard, and he’s just as capable at bringing his team to victory.

Everyone here has at some point, if not now, faced their friend on the field. Someone they grew up with, trained alongside, wore the same kit as—it’s part of the job. He should know, as he emerges onto the pitch and hears the powerful roar of his supporters’ cheers, that his play and his team is all that matters.

Erik clutches the hand of the escort girl standing next to him as they walk to their allocated position on the field. The far-travelled fans, the colours of the flag, the symphony of the national anthem is all there for him to behold. He just has to make the right decisions at the right time. Let his physical intelligence conquer, and let his body do what’s been drilled into it.

He doesn’t have to get caught up in the expectations or the stakes or the fact that—

Charles is now standing directly opposite him, waiting to be received in the line of English players. His hand is extended between them, and Erik is suddenly taken years back.

But that will only remove him from _this_ moment in the arena, on the most important platform of his career. He has to clear his mind and remind himself that—

Charles has always had the most beautiful eyes, lips—

He can’t let his thoughts get away. He’s standing here today to represent his country and perform unhindered by his competition. Charles is his rival. Charles is going to do everything to stop his team from winning.

Erik smiles at his old friend, tight-lipped. They’re already holding up the queue, so he steps forward to grip Charles’s hand and then claps him on the back as their shoulders meet. It’s awfully distant, nothing like they ever imagined their reunion to be.

Then again, they never thought they’d reunite here.

:::

On their way home one evening, Charles was carrying a stack of pamphlets and wore a look of contemplation on his face.

“What are these?” Erik asked, tucking his football under his arm in order to seize one from the top of the pile.  

“Oh—nothing, just… Dr Grey wanted me to look at the prospectuses for some universities abroad.” Charles quickly snatched it back from Erik’s hands. “She thinks I ought to consider applying to study in England. It’d be nice to go there, I suppose,” he mused, flicking through the pages of the booklet with a small smile. “But I don’t know if I’m prepared to move so far.”

Erik winced at what he said next. “But you’d like it there, wouldn’t you?”

Charles narrowed his eyes at him. “Are you saying I should _go_?”

“I’m saying… you’d like it there, and you prefer it there anyway, I know you do.” He swallowed, forcing the words out, “So you should.”

Charles elbowed him in the flank. “Stop kidding. As if I could leave you and piss off to England. Don’t be daft.”

“I’m not kidding,” Erik said quietly. “I’m being serious.”

“I thought we were both planning to attend the same college here.” Charles’s voice was losing its light humorous tone and suddenly sounded laden with disbelief, like he never thought he’d have to be having this discussion.

Erik puffed his cheeks and let out a long, agonised breath. “Well, we can’t.”

Charles stopped walking. He placed a hand on Erik’s chest to stop him walking too.

“What do you mean?”

Erik had been avoiding this conversation for almost three years. Now it had culminated into a nightmare, as their friendship had grown into something precious. Now the prospect of separation was heartbreaking—he shouldn’t have waited this long, he knew.

“Promise you won’t be mad at m—”

“Erik…”

“I’ll be moving back to Germany after graduation.”

“What?! _Why_?” Charles turned on him, stepping forward into Erik’s space until he was cornered against a tree, his football dropping from his grip.

“You know our financial situation, Charles. We could _never_ afford for me to go college here, I’m—I’m sorry. By the summer my mother will be jobless. It’s—”

“So you’re going piss off and leave _me_ all alone?” Charles didn’t sound angry—perhaps he was highlighting the irony in the sudden turn of the situation. He tilted his head to the side. He looked short of breath, eyes and mouth wide.

Erik couldn’t answer.

Instead, he veered the conversation into a safer direction, something that might please Charles.

“I’ve even been selected for a football scholarship program.” Charles only reacted with a smile, mostly shown to his feet. “The university is close to my home town. Coach Howlett put in an impressive reference for me, too. It’s… I… Charles, don’t be sad.”

His friend brushed his knuckle against the bottom of his eye and shrugged.

Charles never had money problems, so Erik didn’t expect him to understand, at least not immediately. Charles had once tried to pay for a field trip on Erik’s behalf, and they’d both learned a lot from that experience—Erik had never considered just what Charles had to tolerate from his parents when he asked them for things, and Charles came to learn of Erik’s inability to accept money that he hadn’t earned himself.

“I’m not,” he claimed shakily. “I mean I’m not sad _you’re_ going. It’s your mother I’m going to miss.”

Erik released the substantial breath that had been trapped in his lungs for too long. He stepped forward to wrap his arms around Charles’s neck, but then—

“Wait—exactly how long have you known you’re going back?”

Erik lowered his arms. He looked down at all the items Charles was holding that could very well be used as weapons against him—and he gently took them into his own hands and set them down on the grass. Charles was by no means a violent person, not even in the slightest way; but when it came to Erik, Charles tended to go even against himself.

“I’ve known we’d be going back since we first arrived here.”

Erik braced himself as Charles launched forward with both hands reaching to grab his shoulders and pin him back to the tree again.

“And you’re telling me _now_? When we only have a few months left together?!”

“So I should’ve told you from the first day?”

“Yes!”

“Would you still have befriended me?”

Charles blinked. “Of course.”

“You would’ve let me become your closest friend? Even knowing I would leave in a few years?”

After a moment of eyebrow-raising thought, Charles moved his hands up to hold Erik’s face.

“Is that what you were afraid of? Oh, Erik…”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing circles into Charles’s back. “I wish I could take you with me.”

Charles nodded, sighing, and went to sit in the grass next to his belongings. Erik joined him, curling an arm around his friend as Charles tipped his head onto his shoulder.

Erik surveyed the scattered booklets in the grass and picked one up to place in his lap.

“Shall we look at this, then? Oxford University. Seems nice.”

:::

Erik gets his first touch on the ball just over a minute into the game. It’s been a comfortable start for them, a round of passing back and forth and claiming dominance over the ball, and patiently waiting for the right time to attack.

The right time doesn’t come for a while: the English defence is a solid, unflinching line, but it’s also their biggest vulnerability. Sloppiness, untimely runs in the wrong direction, inaccurate passes—it’s all going to be courtesy of this very line. His teammates just have to be sure-footed at those opportune moments.

The first half rushes by as nothing more than an insistent offense from his side and an equally efficient blockade of the Englishmen. It’s uneventful enough to warrant only one minute of extra time, but Erik is still glad to notice that it’s the English players who look more exhausted, clearly less accustomed to the stifling heat.

To Erik’s greatest relief, his only interaction with Charles had been a brief misunderstanding over which team had gained the throw-in from the sidelines—but once it was settled that Germany had it, Erik saw the ball leave his hands and land next to his teammate, only to watch Charles dart past red and black shirts, and dispossess his counterparts with ease. Thankfully, he’d been subdued by the defenders, but Charles had now established himself as a challenger very much in the game.

Erik can’t tell if he’s feeling pride or fear.

Their half-time talk in the changing rooms is purely a lesson in German insults. Their passing is too slow, their aims at the goal are atrocious, and the opposition players with the potential to break aren’t being marked.

They return to the pitch sufficiently chastised. Erik empties half a water bottle over himself and jogs to his place. There aren’t any substitutions on their side, so it’s easy to burst back into routine and create a meaningful build-up that earns them a corner kick.

Erik goes to take it. He watches—hands on hips, outwardly calm—as white shirts flood forward to defend their territory. He doesn’t waste time to plant the ball in the centre of the penalty area, where it’s easily deflected away.

They still don’t have the lead. The game continues, and now the exhaustion has translated into desperation. Now shirts are being tugged, yellow cards are being flashed, offside flags are being raised, and Erik doesn’t even realise they’ve played for the full ninety minutes until he sees four minutes of injury time being added.

The whistle blows to mark the end of another dragging, lethargic half.

Erik is disappointed with himself—he’s created opportunities for his teammates, but he’s yet to deliver on his own merit, and he’s seen the ball get snatched away from him on too many valuable occasions. He’d underestimated his opposition, he supposes—it’s no small feat to shoot down every attempt that’s been booted their way.

But the semi-final is still within their grasp. He’s recharged, rehydrated, and none of his past injuries have flared up. Erik hopes his stamina hasn’t gone unnoticed by his contenders; he knows he has to imply his composure by looking completely unruffled as he takes up his position on the pitch for the third time.

And composed he is, until he sees Charles being brought down by a violent tackle. It’s nothing more than a midfield free kick for the English, and he knows he should be relieved, but his concern for his old friend has him jogging over to where Charles is lain.

He arrives at the very moment Charles is confirming he’s okay—Erik is suddenly reminded that the English have been the only team that communicate in a language that everyone understands, making it harder for them to be secretive—and crouches down next to him. Twenty more minutes under the blistering heat and both teams are grappling for their water bottles, but Erik stays by Charles’s side, and offers him a smile before helping him up.

The added time seems to fly by in a series of attacks and counterattacks, and it probably should be nerve-wracking that they’re moments away from a penalty shootout, but this is where the Germans excel. They’d trained for this scenario just yesterday—they’d honed everything from their runs to their decision-making to their strikes, covering both the mental and the physical aspects of penalty taking

The English haven’t put their best strikers on the bench, keeping them secured in an equally safe position. Of course, everybody knows that Charles Xavier has a reputation to outsmart the world’s best, even people twice his size and with more luck on their side. Charles has a talent for obtaining mental clarity, especially in crucial moments where he’s shouldering a momentous burden.

And perhaps the English side are aware of Charles’s effect, because he’s the first one with the shot. He takes a lifetime to walk over, but his execution is rapid, and almost graceful. Perfect. His _left_ leg. An unanticipated angle.

A disastrous beginning for his team.

And so they have no choice but to put on their best number eleven and draw level: it’s mechanical for him, second nature, a finish that’s aided by outstandingly effortless control. Erik is still in awe of the caliber of people he works with.

The next English goal goes in, too—as does the German one that follows. The stadium of over seventy thousand is silent, impatient, because now they know the game is about to change.

A subtle sweep of the goalkeeper’s glove blocks the next English goal.

Erik can finally _breathe_.

And then— _no_ , he really can’t, because he’s now next in line to take a penalty. Why did he agree to this? He’s already forgetting all of his training. He’s suddenly sixteen years old and trying to impress his best friend; he’s five years old and imitating the man on the television by kicking a scrunched up ball of paper.

The English goalkeeper hands him the ball, and Erik finds his hands are completely still. He sets it down, doesn’t look up at the keeper, and takes a moment to absorb the overwhelming support that surrounds him. His compatriots and his fellow countrymen. The people that have put their trust in him, and made sacrifices for him to be here.

He’s made up his mind, he’s chosen his direction, and when he follows through with the inside of his foot—

The ball soars to the left, and the goalkeeper collapses to the right.

Erik gives Germany their advantage point.

Every time he’s imagined— _dreamed_ of the day he scores a pivotal goal, he’s never fancied himself to be the type to celebrate loudly. But right now, he’s _bellowing_. And the crowd screams back.

He rejoins his team where they stand hip to hip and he feels like he’s _earned_ this space, finally. If it counts, then he’d be the gamble that has paid off most spectacularly.

England are prepared with their next penalty taker, and it’s the captain of the team, stepping up with all of his years of experience in performing the daunting task. It takes him three seconds after the whistle to send the ball neatly to the side, and it’s pounced on and bundled up with incredible accuracy - that has the English captain dropping to his knees in despair.

Nobody can even _fathom_ it. The celebrations are intoxicating, for now the defeat is imminent.

All they need is one more to mark the clean sweep of successive German goals, and the fifth one won’t even be necessary. An end to this torment, and for the English, an end of their World Cup campaign.

Erik clings to his teammates as they watch their next player advance. There’s a lot riding on this goal—a place in the semi-finals for a fourth year in a row will be a new world record, and it’s a whole different motivation to be able to solidify the efforts of the players still among them, and the players who have preceded them.

Their centre back, a trusted goal scorer from previous games—also someone who had been delivering seamless penalties during training—begins surging forward and then—

Stops, observes the direction of the goalkeeper, and _then_ kicks.

The crowd erupts before the ball has even touched the net, when it’s still too early to tell, but they know.

They have it.  

:::

Charles was lying on his bed, head hanging off the side: two upside down eyes were watching him empty his bookshelf.

He had one box labelled ‘TAKE’, one labelled ‘DONATE’ and one labelled ‘CHARLES’.

Said recipient had stopped cooperating after an hour or so, leaving Erik to decide for himself which books he would be giving away and which books Charles would want.

It was late in the evening when he realised Charles hadn’t gone home, and was still loitering around in his small room.

“Charles—it’s eight o’clock. Shouldn’t you be going home?”

Charles didn’t look alarmed; he simply rolled onto his stomach and tipped his head down to stare at the carpet.

“I was thinking I could stay here tonight. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not. But did you ask your parents?”

Charles frowned. “No.”

“ _Shouldn’t_ you ask your parents?”

“I doubt they’d notice.”

Erik wasn’t sure he was worth the trouble Charles was risking, but it wasn’t up for debate. Charles had put his foot down about wanting to spend more time with Erik, even if they spent hours silently ignoring each other.

“Would you have a spare toothbrush?” Charles was asking, as he went over to root through Erik’s drawer’s for clothes, completely unabashed. Erik felt unreasonably fond of him.

“Hey.” He rose from the floor and loped towards Charles, who turned around at his proximity. “Listen to me.”

Erik cupped Charles’s cheeks with his palms and lifted his face. “Promise me something. Promise me you won’t give up. You can do anything you want, you know that?”

“What brought this on?” he asked, but Erik insisted, “I need to say this. I need you to listen.”

Charles slowly gave his head a nod. His brows knitted together, though, and Erik swiped his thumbs over the lines on his forehead until they disappeared.

“I mean it, Charles. If you want to study, you do that. If you want to pursue football, then do that—do _both_ if you want to. But don’t give up. Please?”

“I promise,” Charles replied, holding each of Erik’s wrists.

“You’ve been working so hard and you’ve been doing so well. I’ve seen how much you’ve improved. You’ll have to keep working, Charles. Join youth teams, amateur teams, apply for the under twenty-one’s, make _sure_ you impress scouts, train every day—you already know everything about the game inside out. Just make sure you choose wisely when you’re in high demand, alright?”

Charles locked onto his gaze, deliberating, not entirely sure if Erik was joking or not, and then burst into laughter.

“I’m serious!” Erik said determinedly, as his friend bent over to mock-tackle him into the door. “You’ll see, Charles, you’ll see.”

:::

Surely it was just yesterday that he was making his first appearance for FC Schalke 04 in the Bundesliga, wondering if he was actually good enough or if his coach had made a mistake.

And now he has a World Cup goal under his belt.

Erik wants to bask in it for longer—forever, but the title hasn’t been won, yet. It’s still anyone’s game, and they still have another match on the horizon. It does help, however, to have this boost in confidence. He feels _justified_ , deserving—

And slightly heartbroken at the sight of the English team. They’re wearing tired, amicable smiles, and despite their shattering loss after over two hours of gameplay, their congratulations are genuine.

Erik can’t seem to catch Charles’s eye. A number of Charles’s clubmates are German, and he seems to be surrounded by them right now, engaging in conversation. Erik… wishes he was the person Charles is currently leaning on for support.

They’re all escorted off the pitch soon after, and Erik determinedly follows after Charles until they’re under the stadium. It’s quieter here, and when he calls out his old friend’s name, he turns around instantly.

“Erik! My goodness! _There_ you are,” Charles says, and before Erik can embrace him and _hold_ him and convince himself that Charles is in front of him all over again on this phenomenal day, he’s peeling his shirt off and handing it to him. “C’mon, big shot, strip it off.”

Erik blinks.

“Have you forgotten me already?” Charles tilts his head to the side, brows furrowing.

Oh, as if it could be that easy.

“Of course not,” he replies, slightly disoriented by the question and the sight of toned, glistening muscle, as he goes to reciprocate with his own shirt. The cameras are now feasting on them as they companiably exchange shirts and slip them on so they have each other’s names on their chests.

Charles is still glancing down at himself when Erik, overtaken by impulse, grabs his wrist and dashes towards the tunnel. They have to be quick if they don’t want the cameras to return to them.

“What—Erik what are you doing?” Charles asks, but he doesn’t struggle away from him. He follows his lead as they dart into a passageway leading to one of the fire exits, where only a few stewards stand guard. It won’t be long before they’re found and frogmarched to their changing rooms; they have to make good use of their limited time.

“How have you been?” Erik asks with a satisfied exhale. Seeing Charles after so long is indescribable.

Charles suppresses his grin with a tug of his lip under his teeth. He gestures towards the stadium.

“I’ve been _pretty_ good. Can’t complain.” Charles’s eyes are astonishingly bright, and he has to angle his head up exactly like he used to years ago, their height difference still apparent. “How’s it going with you?”

Erik, rather defeatedly, also lifts his arms to gesture at the stadium.

“I’ve been well. Busy.”

Charles hums knowingly, then squares him with a serious look. “You’ve done so well for yourself, Erik. Not just today—actually I was rather hoping you’d do _shit_ today…”

Erik bends his head to laugh, holding onto the wall above Charles’s shoulder.

“Sorry about that,” he murmurs. “It was. A valiant effort from both teams. Amazing performance by yourself, must be said. We got lucky in the end.”

Charles chuckles, the sound so different and new it’s thrilling. “ _We_ got lucky, Erik. I don’t think anyone expected us to get to the quarterfinals, let alone the semis. Our luck had to run out at some point.”

Erik clasps the side of Charles’s neck and smiles. He lowers his voice. “I’ve missed you, Charles. Ever so much. Every single day.”

Charles straightens against the wall. Their foreheads almost bump together.

“Me too, Erik. Me too. I think about you all the time.” He drops his head to glance down at their muddied boots. “I still think about all the things you said to me. I don’t know if I’d even be here if it wasn’t for your words.”

He wants Charles to look up at him when he’s smiling and remembering the times they spent together, but somehow he can understand the need to avoid eye contact, as he also ducks his head to smile.

There’s probably a bright, telling blush covering his cheeks by now. He bites down on the urge to say ‘I was right’.

“I know,” he says instead. He smooths his hand up Charles’s arm and tugs him towards his chest. He wraps his arm around Charles’s waist, resting his chin on his shoulder. “We might have to stay like this for a while. Now that I’m finally seeing you after so long…” He squeezes Charles against him. “I just want us to become inseparable again.”

It’s out of his heart and through his mouth before he could’ve stopped to make sure it isn’t too soon. They’re seeing each other after six years; how can Erik think they can become what they once were?

Charles must be very tired. “I want nothing more,” he breathes against Erik’s neck, “my friend.”

Charles must be very, very tired.

So he probably shouldn’t put faith in his words, but there’s something about the conviction in Charles’s voice and the boldness in his eyes that has Erik _wanting_ to.

But with Erik being based in Germany with Schalke, and Charles in England for Arsenal... It’s an inspired thought, but they’re no longer carefree seventeen year olds, and honestly Erik doesn’t even understand what he expects of Charles. The man regularly goes nightclubbing with members of the Royal Family, for christ’s sake. A childhood friend living in a different country with an equally hectic schedule would only be forgotten, eventually.

“Shit,” mutters Charles, pulling away from Erik. “We’ve been found.”

Erik turns to see a furious posse marching their way, following the path led by a steward that points directly at them.

“Erik,” Charles says, his eyes cautious on the scene ahead. “You know which hotel my lot are staying at, right? Go to the reception, ask for the manager, tell him who you are, and he will give you the second key to my hotel room. No later than five am. Now _go_.”

Before Erik can question whatever bribery Charles is about to perform, he gets a shove forward into the direction of his assistant coach as they part ways. Charles is escorted away, flanked by guards, and Erik returns to his own camp where there’s chaos and celebration; he has a sock thrown on his face the very moment he enters.

He’s rather obsessively thinking about the few hours until he’ll see Charles. It’s almost impossible to simply stroll into their base, but now that the match has been played and the English players are packing up to go home, there should be less caution—Erik’s only hope is that Charles is on extremely good terms with the manager, enough to allow someone from a different squad to gain access.

They have the rest of the day off for their own time. After a congratulating team talk, Erik takes a brilliantly long shower and dresses himself in casual clothes that can hide his identity for the journey. He has to be surreptitious about this; he even asks one of the staff to cover for him and claim, if anyone inquires, that he’s out for the night to take care of an emergency, but he’ll be back before training. Their own base is in a secluded village near a beach resort, but the England team’s hotel complex is in Rio, which will be closer from the stadium.

The cab journey is a long one. At first his driver is chattering to him about the match, and Erik very happily pretends he’s a civilian with little knowledge of the event, until he can no longer keep his eyes open without yawning. Weariness has him falling asleep at the very moment the driver pauses for breath, and he doesn’t wake up until he’s being insistently poked in the shoulder. The driver explains that he’s unable to drop him off directly in front of the hotel, but it’s a short walk from where they are. Erik is still grateful that he’s made it, and that too, an hour early. He digs out some reals from his pocket and hands them to the driver before heading out.

The Royal Tulip is littered with security and media vans. He’s being ogled by guards from all corners as he enters the hotel and beelines straight for the front desk. He only knows that the uppermost floors of the hotel are completely exclusive to the English team, and so access is restricted to none other than those with a pass or a key. Erik leans over the counter and kindly requests to see the manager, who promptly appears at the call of his staff. Having footballers as guests must be keeping him up at night, Erik thinks, as he catches the time on the wall clock—ten minutes past four.

The manager only asks for evidence of his identity and an autograph for his niece. And then he’s handing him the key, and instructing him to wait for a stop-and-search before he’ll be accompanied upstairs. That’s _it._ Charles must have charmed him immensely.

Erik steps into the elevator that takes him directly up to the top floor, where some more security stands guard. He holds the key ready in his hand as he approaches Charles’s hotel room, skin feeling tight and odd and new. He turns the key, dead quiet, and opens the door as slowly and silently as he can. There’s a dim light reaching the front corridor of his ridiculously lavish suite, and for a moment Erik thinks Charles is awake—until he recalls Charles always liked to sleep with a nightlight on. He remembers having to get used to that during their sleepovers.

Charles is _very much_ asleep. Only oblivion could have him sprawled on his stomach without a care of the picture he makes, with the larger part of his comforter spilling off the bed and leaving him mostly exposed. Erik can’t help how quickly his gaze is drawn to the Arsenal logo printed across the briefs snug on Charles’s rear.

Erik turns around, heart hammering. What is he doing? His mother taught him better than that. He isn’t… Charles isn’t even _conscious_ , he doesn’t even expect Erik to be here yet. What Erik should be doing, as a friend, is reaching for the comforter and covering up his modesty. Yes, and that’s exactly what he does, ever so quietly—and that’s precisely when Charles wakes up.

“Hmm?”

Charles sleepily turns his head to the side, then pushes himself up onto his elbows. His eyes are still closed.

“Charles, it’s Erik. Lehnsherr.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right,” Charles mumbles, then sinks back down onto the mattress. “Erik Lehnsherr. You’re… you’re very good.”

“Sorry—I’m early. Go back to sleep.”

Erik sensibly arranges the comforter around Charles’s shoulders as he goes inert again, but now his eyes have snapped open.

“Was I dreaming… or did we really get eliminated from the World Cup… again?”

“On penalties,” Erik adds, unable to hide the amusement from his voice.

Charles groans and throws the comforter onto the floor before climbing out of his gigantic bed and stumbling into the bathroom, where the light is coming from.

Oh. Alright, so Charles is just going to parade around in his briefs. Erik searches the room for a bathrobe as he hears his friend throw water onto his face. It’s not the first time he’s been around careless footballers in varying states of undress, but this is his _friend_ , that same tiny, ridiculous, blue-eyed creature who used to follow him around. And then transformed into a perfectly beautiful creature. Now, Erik can’t even look at the man’s bed without blushing.  

“I suppose you’ll all be out celebrating today,” Charles says, still bent over in front of the sink.

Erik folds his arms. “No, actually, we have a long team training session, then physio, then we’ll be reviewing our performance of yesterday’s match.”

“How very German,” Charles comments, their eyes locking through the mirror in front of him. “Did you get here without trouble?” he asks, squeezing toothpaste out onto a toothbrush.

“Surprisingly, yes…”

Erik trails off, his gaze captured by a large, colourful bruise on Charles’s back. It’s most likely a result of the collision with the ground that Charles had when he was fouled, which he had shrugged off at the time, but the closer Erik steps, the worse it looks.

“Your back looks bad,” he says, placing his hand on Charles’s naked shoulder and running his fingers over the skin unaffected by the contusion. “Have you had it looked at?”

“It’s fine,” Charles insists, vigorously scrubbing at his back teeth. He removes the brush to say, “Don’t worry.”

Erik gives it a doubtful look. He wants to ignore the fact that he can see all of the little freckles up Charles’s arms and across his upper back, but it’s difficult to. They’re slightly mesmerising.

Charles eyes him over his shoulder before emptying his mouth. “What?”

“Nothing,” Erik claims. “I’m just admiring your freckles.”

“Oh.” Charles straightens his posture, and Erik can pinpoint the exact moment he’s made their gathering in the bathroom a lot more awkward than it could be. “Well… I’m glad you like them, at least.”

Erik takes a step back as Charles turns around, mouth open to speak. There’s still some lingering foam above his lip, and Erik unthinkingly reaches forward to wipe it off with the back of his finger. It’s sort of a blessing that Charles doesn’t flinch.

“Thanks,” he says, breathily, and then inspects himself in the mirror.

“No problem.”

Erik follows Charles out of the en suite, but doesn’t join him on the ginormous unmade bed, not until Charles insists with his eyes and pats the spot next to him.

“There’s something very important we need to talk about.”

Nodding, Erik seats himself. He was less nervous when he was taking a penalty.

“What if I told you that a certain person I am linked to is committed to getting you to sign on for his club?”

Erik’s mind lights up. “The manager of Arsenal?”

Charles nods, grinning.

“Wants _me_?”

“Yes! He’s had his eye on you since UCL last year. He’s watched you in all of the qualifiers and he’s been very enthusiastic about your performance stats. _Thirty_ assists last season, Erik, you’ve been incredible! He’s willing to make you a number ten, and he hasn’t disclosed your salary, but he’s going to make it public when the Cup is over. I just thought I’d tell you before he… does… Erik—Erik are you listening to me? Are you alright?”

Charles clutches his face and shakes him.

“I can’t believe it,” Erik pans, staring at his friend, who continues to stroke his hair back and pat his cheeks as though trying to help convince him that he’s not dreaming. “He wants...me?”

“Yes, darling, he wants you.” Charles comes closer to him, until he can place his chin on Erik’s head. “I know you’re comfortable in Schalke, but I also know you’d love a challenge. Playing in English Championships, living in London, with me. Doesn’t that sound good to you too? Would you consider his offer?”

Erik doesn’t even get a chance to answer; Charles speaks on.

“You won’t regret it, I promise. And you’re still young, people will be pawing after you for a long time. Your English is already good, too.”

“It is?”

“Yes, Erik, it is. And you know I’m thinking about getting a new place when I go back, but now I should start looking for a bigger house for both of us, yes?”

Erik’s heart leaps. _Living with Charles._ Getting to know him all over again, getting used to all of his ridiculous habits and having his day filled with their conversations and having his most precious friend back. Erik isn’t stupid enough to reject all of that.

“Yes, Charles. _Of course._ ”

Charles wastes absolutely no time to climb on top of him and wrestle him down onto the bed, as he chants about how happy he is, how exciting this will be. Erik still can’t understand how quickly the time has passed, how he’s gone from crying over having to move away from his best friend, to now wanting to cry from the joy of moving in with him.

“Erik,” Charles says into his ear, the most beautiful sound. “There’s something... else we need to talk about.”

Charles sits up and shuffles away to the side so that he’s sitting next to Erik instead. If his tone isn’t enough to suggest the seriousness of what he’s about to say, then that little gesture certainly does.

“Alright. Go ahead,” Erik encourages. Charles is worrying his bottom lip, and Erik offers him support through the dread twisting a knot inside him, moving a hand forward to hold Charles’s—but he gently moves it away, leaving it in the space between them on the bed.

“You said yesterday that you want us to become inseparable again. And believe me, Erik, I want that too. I want us to become closer than we’ve ever been.”

“Is there a problem?” Erik sits up to face Charles.

“That’s actually what I want to know.” Charles splays a hand over his chest. “I haven’t exactly made it public, so I’m telling you now, that I’m attracted to men. I’ve been in relationships with both men and women for the past few years, but of course I’ve had to keep one side of that a secret. Erik there’s no way I can hide such a big part of myself from you, especially not when we’re living together. So I need to know if that will be a problem between us.”

Charles looks up and locks his gaze, and Erik doesn’t even let himself blink, lest he unintentionally give away how he’s feeling.

“I don’t have a problem with who you’re attracted to, Charles,” Erik enunciates, dragging a sigh of relief from his friend. “Are you seeing someone? Do you intend to?” Because he might have a problem with that, he thinks.

Charles simply stares at him for a long time.

“I’m—not at the moment, no. Are you seeing anyone?”

“I’m not.” Erik looks away, finally breaking eye contact. “You won’t have to worry about me bringing people home.”

“I suppose the seventeen year old in me who had a _huge_ crush on you will be very happy about that.”

Charles is watching his reaction very closely, as though he can read his expression and determine the cards on Erik’s chest. His head is tilted to the side and he looks pained, as though he’s put Erik under some sort of crisis with his confession.

“You had a huge crush on me?” When Charles gives a nod, Erik laughs and moves to leave the bed. “I’m _still_ crazy about you, dammit.”

Charles seems to burst into life, blocking Erik’s way and steering him back down onto the bed.

“Then say it, Erik. Say you don’t want to see me with anyone else.”

Erik reaches forward to clutch Charles’s shoulders. “I apologise now if I can’t.” Charles shakes his head. “I know you moved on and I’ve been very aware of it—or at least however much of it you let the media see. I tried to move on as well but I couldn’t.”

“Erik when you left me I _had_ to try. I was completely shattered.”

“It hurt me to leave you and I’m _sorry_ —”

“Shh, it’s alright.” Erik doesn’t even realise his voice has broken at the last word. All he’s aware of are Charles’s fingers across his mouth. Charles coming closer. Charles laying him down. Charles so close that he has to close his eyes just to be able to breathe. And he’s an endurance athlete, he has the lung capacity to carry him through a two hour match, and yet he feels like he’s going to pass out from just having Charles’s body draped over his.

“You don’t ever have to see me with anyone else,” Charles whispers, nosing his cheek. “Just say you want it that way and I’ll promise.”

Erik shivers. His head falls back onto the pillow and allows Charles to roll his tongue over his neck. Erik clutches the bed linens for dear life, suppressing the embarrassing noise that’s working its way up his throat. He can only nod, and then move his hands to Charles’s upper arms, containing him.

“I want you,” he responds, and Charles watches him with a smirk before moving down for Erik’s throat. Like he does this all the time. Like it’s just that easy for him to draw pleasure out of someone. “But Charles I… need you to slow down.”

Charles’s head lurches backwards in an instant. He looks down at Erik with open, plump lips, messy hair, and a look of confusion.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise I was going too fast.” Charles apologetically smiles, and sits up to give Erik breathing space. He nods, “We should take this slow. Alright? That’s what we’ll do.”

“I’ve never done this,” he blurts. “I’ve never done this with a man.” In fact he’s not even sure how to go about it with a man. All he knows is he doesn’t want anything to go in his arse.

“That’s not a problem, Erik. Look at me. Breathe.”

Charles moves downwards so he’s sitting lower on Erik’s abdomen. Erik takes deep breaths.

“You’re just going to lay down and relax, and let me do all the work.” Charles interlocks their fingers and brings each of Erik’s palms up to his lips for a kiss. “You shouldn’t exert yourself too much. You still have matches to play.”

Oh, yes, that’s right. He does. Somehow having Charles mostly nude on top of him has managed to make him forget that he’ll be playing in the semi-final of the World Cup.

“All you’re going to do for me…” Charles places Erik’s hands down on his own shirt. “Is get naked.”

“Will you let me touch you?”

Charles licks his lips and climbs off of him and off the bed, slipping onto his feet and bolting back into the en suite. “Get naked first,” he calls.

Erik wars with his clothes and wrenches them off before pelting them onto the ground and then returning to his position. He’s not sure if his boxers should be off yet, but Charles did say _naked_ , and there’s no way his dick can be tucked away so easily, now that it’s out and hardening. He doesn’t touch himself while he waits. He concentrates on the smell of Charles still emanating from the pillows, and he hopes he’ll smell the same when he leaves.

Charles walks back in with both his hands occupied and stops short of the bed. He sweeps his gaze down Erik’s body but doesn’t get lower than his crotch. He empties his hands, dropping both items on the bed, and then pulls down his underwear.

Erik regains his grip on the bedsheets.

Charles clears his throat. “Erik.”

“Charles.”

“Are you sure you still want to do this?”

“I think I want to do this even more.”

Charles climbs atop the bed again and sits astride him like before, but this time on his thighs.

“Any injuries I should be aware of? Just to be on the safe side.”

“Right ankle,” Erik replies. “All good otherwise.”

“Relax for me.” Charles spreads his hands across Erik’s stomach, mapping the defined lines of his muscles as they ripple under his fingers. He breathes out and in, and for a while they each focus on the movement under Charles’s hands, until it’s become _too slow_ and Erik wishes he’d never asked for this pace in the first place.

He can’t keep his hands on the bed any longer. He brings them around to Charles’s back and runs them down his flanks, the skin so smooth he can’t stop touching, and then he drags them down to his hips. Charles doesn’t resist when he pulls him down on top of him again.

This time the length of Erik’s cock is rubbing along Charles’s stomach as he moves forward to align their lips. Erik grips the skin under his hands with a gasp.

Charles pecks each corner of his mouth, turning Erik’s face with his hands. When he sits up again Erik moans, protesting, but Charles only quiets him and asks for his hand. He locates the tube on the bed and squeezes it out over Erik’s fingers, some of the gel reaching Charles’s thighs. He grabs Erik’s finger and scoops the droplet off his skin, then spreads the lubricant over each. There’s enough to make his hand shine in the low light. Charles curls close to him again, his cock nudging against Erik’s, and for a moment they both get lost into it—their hips bucking in tandem to prolong the feeling—until Charles is stopping him with both hands holding down his hips. When Erik is efficiently flattened down and they’ve both caught their breath, Charles guides Erik’s lubricated hand behind himself.

“Just open me up a little, okay?”

He nods even though he’s uncertain of what that means, but then it seems rather obvious, when he slips his finger between Charles’s arse cheeks and—

“Am I doing it right?”

“Honey you haven’t done anything at all. You can put it further inside me.”

Erik pushes his finger deeper, and he’s rewarded with Charles slowly, gradually, folding forward to moan over his mouth and then kissing it. It’s not one long kiss: it’s a breathless succession of many, over and over, hard and quick and painstakingly short. Erik leaves his mouth open for Charles’s teasing, while adding another finger inside Charles in retaliation, deep enough to make him mewl and bite down on Erik’s lip instead of his own.

“Just a little bit more,” he pleads. It takes Erik a moment to realise he’s being asked to add another finger. Charles squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his thighs either side of Erik’s waist. “That’s it I can’t wait any longer.”

Charles removes Erik’s hands from inside him and searches the bed, frantically, for—the condom packet, which he rips so ferociously it’s almost made redundant.

Charles then shows him how to apply it over his cock with his mouth, hands tucked away like a careful football player.

Of course. Of course Charles makes him see things that way.

He’s given a slow stroke up and down his shaft, and once again he hides his vocal reaction with lips pressed together. Charles grins and asks him if he’s ready and all Erik can do is vigorously move his head up and down.

“Remember to relax,” Charles says, and it seems like a nice idea at first, when Charles is spreading his beautiful thighs and opening himself for Erik’s cock to enter, but then it’s _too slow._ Charles braces himself with his hands on Erik’s shoulders, cleverly feigning his need for support while keeping Erik from taking over, still hell-bent on having him lying back. He’s almost wishing he doesn’t have another few matches to play, but that would be wishing his country to not be in the semi-finals of their most important tournament. “What are you thinking about?”

“Football.”

“Fuck’s sake _fine_.”

Charles grits his teeth but allows himself to slide down along the length of Erik’s cock, which feels so much bigger and receptive when it’s submerged inside Charles.

A bead of sweat drips from his chin and lands on Erik’s chest. Erik holds Charles around his hips again, right where the pink marks of his last touch still remain, and he tries to thrust upwards, but—

Charles doesn’t let him. Erik doesn’t even have the chance to moan and protest because he is finally moving, this time up and down his cock, rising high enough to leave only his head inside him, and dropping low enough that his balls are resting on Erik’s navel.

“This is unfair but it feels good,” Erik whispers, breathing heavily. “I… I want to…”

He can’t get the rest out.

The only control he has is making Charles arch his back when he runs his thumbs down his nipples, or making his breath catch when he touches his thighs, and so his curiosity has him reaching for Charles’s cock and holding it in two hands and massaging its thickness, and unknowingly—it’s _strange_ to have a cock in his hands and not feeling anything himself—he perhaps squeezes a little too hard because pre-come spreads onto his palms.

“Are you trying to make me come?” Charles asks, stopping to get his attention. Erik could give one thrust to resume the pace, but—

“Yes?”

Charles grips both of Erik’s hands and pins them to the wall above.

“If you make me come, it will _hurt_ when you fuck me.”

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know that.” Erik gives Charles an apologetic smile and obediently doesn’t struggle out of his shackles. Which are strong, unsurprisingly.

And it gives Charles more leverage to grind down on Erik with added force and power, and Erik can do nothing but clamp down on his bottom lip and hope the loud, embarrassing noises he can no longer hold back from making aren’t going to get Charles in trouble in the morning.

“ _Please_ let me touch you,” he begs.

Charles shakes his head, hair sticky against his forehead.

“Come down and kiss me,” he tries, and that manages to work, even if the kiss Charles bows to give him is completely off target. It reminds him of a tiny, ridiculous thirteen year old Charles. “You beautiful creature. All mine again.”

Erik kisses up into Charles’s smile, and sucks on Charles’s tongue, the minty fresh toothpaste-taste still there.

“Hold me,” Charles says, his grip relenting. Erik’s hands drop and they’re slightly cold when he brings them around Charles’s waist and gathers him close, but Charles moans, content, and buries his face into Erik’s neck.

He feels himself on the verge of coming when Charles slows down, so he holds his hips and encourages Charles to move, just a little bit more, and—

Careful not to be too loud, he voices his pleasure into Charles’s hair, and at first he’s thinking they’re both coming at the same time, isn’t that lovely, but then—Charles is crying.

He feels a shot of come up his chest, a little bit even on his cheek. And wet tears against his neck.

At first he’s panicking and fearing the worst, and his hands are on Charles’s back soothing him, and he’s wondering if he will ever be forgiven, but then—

“Charles? Do you… do you cry when you orgasm?”

After a long, thoughtful sniffle, Charles nods.

Erik wraps his arms tightly around Charles and rolls them over.

“You’re adorable. You’re _so_ adorable Charles, even as a grown man. I am going to love you so damn much you will be crying every single night.”

Charles is still hiding in his shoulder but Erik can hear a giggle.

“I mean it,” he adds, kissing Charles on the forehead. “Beware.”

It’s a pity he can’t share this with the world. Yet—Erik can’t imagine what being with Charles would be like but he knows he wants it, and he knows he wants to keep it precious.

It helps, that he finally knows how he feels about Charles Xavier.

There’s been nothing but love from the start.


End file.
